автордың кітабын онлайн тегін оқу  Wild and Violent. You Had Too Much Freedom

Stella Fracta

Contents

Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction with fictional characters and a fictional plot. It contains descriptions of physical, sexual, and emotional abuse that serve as a metaphor for the harm inflicted, often unconscious, and is told from the perspective of a victim under psychological influence. The author addresses the problem of violence, including child abuse, within a family, and through the forms of literary expression, reveals the horrific and disgusting aspects of what happens behind closed doors and is not brought to light.

The author doesn’t give up hope that the book will finally be understood right: psychological abuse, manipulation, a narcissistic mother, and incest are bad; the underage victim, lost in a labyrinth of distorting mirrors, is unhappy and needs help.

Save Victor.

1. Station

Penn Station never sleeps, especially during rush hour. The bustling station boils like a scorching cauldron, and no one cares: whether one is trying to pull a shoelace out of a gap between the steps of an escalator, crying over the sight of a torn new suitcase, or stealing hot dogs from unwary tourists — no one pays any attention.

I looked around, in search of a likely candidate who wasn’t keeping an eye on their property. When dusk falls in late autumn, people like me, being as if they are ever-restless squirrels, have no choice but to act decisively, casting aside the fear of being caught red-handed.

Better to get warm by running away without loot than to go hungry without even trying … Otherwise, there’ll be nothing to buy off the pesky local leaders with. Yesterday, I barely managed to fight off a gang that controls the nearby neighborhood, who assumed me occupying a space in a box in the back alleyway on West 43rd Street was ‘illegal.’ Just think of it, a cardboard box being illegal! But even homeless people have their own rules.

Being a tramp in Midtown, compared to everyone else, I could consider myself a trust fund baby — who can boast of living within walking distance of Times Square?

Here, on the streets, physical strength, endurance, and authority play a decisive role … I sometimes wondered how I, a skinny teenager, was still alive. Although the struggle for survival and natural selection have not been canceled.

The rat you don’t eat today will happily and readily eat you tomorrow.

New Yorkers weren’t prepared for the sudden change in weather conditions; the oncoming cold snap terrified me, too. I shuddered as I recalled the previous winter in the city: a corner of a dosshouse — albeit a stinking barracks — where it was warm helped me survive.

This time it was still necessary to find a place to live, and the time for the box had long passed.

But now was a different time — a moment when, with the speed of a cat being chased by a pack of dogs, I needed to snatch an expensive bag from some fashionista. The bag and phone would fetch a song from resetters, but the cash inside, like an Easter surprise — usually no more than the cost of a single taxi ride — could save me right away.

Everyone wants to eat. I wouldn’t even turn down the half-eaten bun of a cheap burger from someone who’s gluten-intolerant.

My stomach gave a drawn-out howl, echoing my gloomy thoughts. Scanning the crowd exiting the station building, I almost immediately chose my prey.

Well-well, a cashmere coat and a lynx fur collar, a beautiful face dreamily turned to her lanky companion … A bag hanging carelessly on her narrow shoulder, which she doesn’t keep an eye on.

They chatter carefree about the trip they just finished, getting ready to go home, glancing towards the avenue to catch a car, and I just bite my lip, wrapping myself in an old hoodie — the only warm clothes I have — secretly, even from myself, envying such shameless individuals, bathing in blessings and joy.

An instant later, I was deftly maneuvering between the passers-by, following closely behind the couple, and now the woman’s bag is in my hand: a wave of her perfume hits me, causing an inexplicable thrill, and the thin strap slides down, falling freely along her body.

At the very last moment, as I was about to disappear into the crowd of tourists who had just happened to be nearby, the loot twitched in my frozen fingers, pulling me back by its own momentum. I heard a shriek — so typical … how sick I was of it! — and I tried with all my might to escape, even if the strap the woman had somehow managed to grab would break.

And so it happened. With a short but loud crack, the loop snapped, and I turned around for just a second, meeting the frightened gaze of the woman who had spotted the thief through the crowd.

I was already rushing along the sidewalk, crossing the roadway toward the park, stumbling on the stone steps, dashing without looking back. I was striving for safety, but contrary to usual, something went wrong.

I myself was seriously scared — either of the victim, who had suddenly acquired a personality and a beautiful face, or of the obstacles in her resistance.

And, what’s more, I realized too late that I was being chased. That same guy — her companion — was now rushing after me, bumping into passers-by getting in his way, and she was only crying something after him, begging him not to do anything, lagging behind slightly.

Having passed the park and crossed the street, I ducked through a hole in the fence where the construction was underway. If there was no way through on the other side — the gate had been locked a couple of times — I’d get myself trapped! How could I have made such a mistake in my escape route, giving in to panic! I couldn’t get enough air, and as soon as I slowed around the corner, naively assuming I’d managed to escape, the man in a black coat burst out from around the corner, knocking me off my feet.

He pounced on me and already had my throat in a death grip, and before I could come to my senses — I couldn’t even break free — I was grabbing his hands on my neck at random; he seemed like an infernal shadow with burning eyes, trying to drag me into the underworld.

It occurred to me that, unfortunately, this would be my end: to be caught red-handed and shamefully strangled — by the punishing hand of an angry avenger.

“… Erik, stop!” the sound of a female voice reached me, as if through a veil, very close. “Erik, you’ll strangle him!”

Multicolored flashes danced before my eyes, I could no longer comprehend anything, but the grip suddenly weakened, and my body fell helplessly onto the pavement.

I gasped for breath, wheezing and coughing, while they — the woman and the man — stared silently at me on my knees.

If only I could get up, if only I could find the strength to escape from here … I need to run!

“Who taught you to steal from the street anyway?!”

“Leave him alone!”

“What do you mean, leave him alone? I’ll beat the life out of him so he never dares again!”

“No, please, no!” the woman begged him.

“He stole your bag!”

“To hell with that bag!”

The ill-fated bag, without the strap, lay on the pavement. It took me a while to get to my feet; forgetting the object I’d been trying to get myself to, I rushed forward, only to be abruptly tripped. Without letting me fall to the ground, the man shook me, turning me around by my raised wrists towards him, drilling me with his gaze.

His eyes were of unusual color — amber, like a cat’s, albeit with human round, dilated pupils.

“Look at me!” he barked, but for some reason I was looking past him, at the pale stranger trying to tear the man away from the pathetic thief. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you, you vile boy!”

There was something in his tone that made me believe him: he really would kill me.

I stood dumbly silent, blinking my eyelashes, wishing I could disappear into the ground. I want to leave!

“Erik, come on, let him go.”

He obeyed, and as soon as his gloved hands released me, I ran away headlong, not even looking where I was going.

No one was chasing me. After running three blocks, unable to bear the throbbing pain in my throat any longer, I stopped in a dimly lit section of the street and sank down onto the wet, cold pavement, sitting on my butt.

I hadn’t cried in a long time — I thought I’d simply forgotten how to do so in the uninhabitable conditions I’d been living in for so many years — but my body was shaking, either from the cold or from silent sobs.

Perhaps the only thing left for me to do today was lie down.

In the box.

2. Handcuffs

When winter descends on the city, New Yorkers rejoice in the fresh snow and the approaching Christmas festivities. For those living on the streets, things are a little different.

Of course, the stream of onlookers doesn’t disappear, and warmly dressed passers-by still lose bags, give change to beggars, and throw their perfectly usable junk in the trash, but getting all of the above is becoming much more difficult.

Not because a hobo’s frozen hands don’t obey him as he rummages through garbage and stumbles across broken bottles, but because with the onset of cold weather, he has to force himself to move more often and constantly search for something to eat. Physiology demands more resources for survival.

Otherwise, one will simply freeze to death, or be robbed by their fellow sufferers. I never encountered the solidarity among the homeless that I’d heard about on the streets of Manhattan — only competition.

It was warm inside the station building — I even felt drowsy as I leaned against a column in the cash machine corner, watching for patrol movements. I was taking a risk, as I always did.

Snatching the clutch from an elderly woman was easy; she immediately started wailing, but I was already far away — heading for the hall’s exit through the winding corridors, not at all afraid of being followed. I’d pulled this trick many times before, and the patrol at the opposite end of the hall posed no threat.

I turned around out of habit as I crossed the street, and to my great surprise, I caught the gaze of the stranger — the same one whose husband had shaken me like a rag doll in the back alleyway yesterday. She was a few feet away — a good distance for me to lose a tail — but clearly ready to follow me.

A wave of panic washed over me again. Just like last time, I foolishly chose the wrong direction: once I crossed the park, which was awash with multicolored lights even during the day, I had no other escape route except the hole in the fence.

“Stop!” I heard the voice behind me, very close now, but I only sped up.

Who do you think would stop if someone shouted something like that at them, clearly with bad intentions?

What does she want from me? I didn’t even take her bag yesterday; I’m running off with someone else’s loot! Does she really want a rematch? What if her yellow-eyed husband is lurking around the corner?!

But I had no choice. Almost crashing into the fence, I squeezed between the metal sheets, once again grateful for my slight frame.

“Stop right there! I won’t do anything to you!”

No way! The damn woman, following my example, slipped through the hole in the fence a couple of seconds later, and under any other circumstances, I would have commended her for her agility.

Whether it was because I was running out of strength or just by chance, she managed to catch up with me before I reached the other side of the fence. I felt strong hands grab me sharply by the shoulders from behind, and even with the slight weight of the stranger’s body, I lost my balance.

We collapsed onto the pavement, but I immediately perked up — the clutch forgotten — breaking free and rising from my knees. As luck would have it, she reacted quickly too, and her fingers clamped down on my wrist again — so tightly and painfully that I couldn’t help but hiss.

Gasping for air, we stared at each other for a few moments, like bristling cats, arching our backs and dividing territory; then I flinched, but she showed no sign of being embarrassed, extending her other hand and intending to hold me back.

At that moment, I didn’t think clearly — I was all about instinct. Was I being cornered, trapped? That meant I had to defend myself.

The makeshift knife, stolen from a hobo for self-defense, came in handy. Ducking down and dodging her grasp, I thrust the blade forward.

The woman knocked it out of my hand before I could even gasp.

“What are you doing?!” she exclaimed, holding my shaking body by the forearms and looking into my eyes.

She was indignant. And she was as scared as I was.

And she was also very beautiful — like the girls on the advertising signs; only too pale to arouse the interest of lovers of luscious and tanned beauties.

“What do you want from me?!” I shrieked, realizing she wouldn’t let me go.

For some reason, I couldn’t stand her closeness, and her spicy perfume irritated my receptors more than I could bear.

“I want to help you!”

“I don’t need any help!” I croaked in response, still trying to break free.

Is she crazy?!

“Stop twitching, calm down,” she said, her voice much quieter, but her trustful tone only irritated me.

She’s clearly up to something — just grabbing a homeless boy, holding him by force, not even being squeamish … There’s clearly something wrong with her.

Most likely, she is one of those perverts who take homeless people in their luxury cars to a distant hole, where they, already ready to do anything for food or a fix, are raped, dismembered, and something else like that.

Not a chance, I don’t want to end up like this. I’m definitely not buying it!

The adrenaline in my blood was off the charts — both from the sheer brutality of the situation and from the fear of the torture that lay ahead: for some reason, I quickly believed my assumptions … I kicked her in the knee: all representatives of the human race are alike — all have the same vulnerabilities. The woman coughed hoarsely, momentarily loosening her grip, and it only took me a second to push her away and run in the opposite direction.

“You little—!” she blurted out, and I, in turn, was ready to scream at the top of my lungs in panic.

I took literally two steps before something cold and metallic snapped around my left wrist, caught in the grip of her palms.

Handcuffs …!

I jerked again, dragging the woman behind me, leaning against the pavement, chained to me with cuffs, and then, powerless, I fell to my knees.

“Let go!” I howled.

“Don’t be afraid of me!”

“I’m not going anywhere!”

“No one will hurt you!”

Maybe she’s from the police or social services? But cops don’t care about hobos! What do I do, what do I—

She tried to lift me off my backside, holding me under my arms, but I resisted her every move, kicking violently: as soon as her patience ran out, she would let go of me. She would get tired of messing with me, and she would leave me sitting here.

“Why are you so stubborn?” she grumbled in my ear, and I dodged her hands, squeezing my eyes shut, trying not to breathe, so as not to smell her clean, fragrant body again, not to feel the soft fabric of her short coat. “Get up!”

She pulled my left hand upward, and the steel ring of the handcuffs cut into my wrist, but I kept resisting, pulling us both to the ground.

I tried not to burst into tears, but inside I was seething with rage mixed with dread. Why does this happen to me?!

The stranger dragged me for several yards, and I feigned limpness, a broken toy, gritting my teeth in pain. Then she stopped, carefully walking around me — surprisingly, without twisting my aching limb — and leaning toward my face.

“I won’t hurt you! Come with me, I’ll explain everything.”

“No!”

“Get up!”

“Screw you!” I muttered.

But for some reason, I was already leaning forward, drawn by her embrace, rising to my feet.

And then I trudged in the direction her hands were pushing me.

“Come on, you have nothing to lose,” the stranger encouraged me gently, and although her face retained a concentrated expression, I heard a smile in her voice.

I didn’t believe her — not a single word. But I really had no choice. I was handcuffed to my tormentor — I couldn’t kill her, really …

What if—? No, no, I don’t want more blood on my hands — there have been enough unpleasant incidents already.

Well, yeah, I thought mirthlessly. I’ll have to bite off my wrist to get rid of the handcuffs. Or break my hand — then I’ll be able to pull my fingers through the ring.

When we got out onto the busy street through the unlocked gate, I no longer attempted to escape. I remained vigilant, watching every second for the right moment, adopting the strategy of a lurking hunter.

Or a mouse cannot be a hunter if a cunning cat is about to grab its tail with a sharp claw, can it?

The woman was looking at me strangely, and in her dark eyes I could see my reflection: a skinny, long-nosed boy in a greasy hoodie, a pale, pointed face with dirty hair falling over his forehead. I couldn’t hold the gaze on myself for so long without looking away.

Undeterred by the way passers-by began to glance at us, out of breath and disheveled — a hobo handcuffed to a pretty young woman in expensive clothes would raise questions, although perhaps from a distance it looked like we were holding hands? — the stranger led me to the dark blue off-roader.

“Get in the car,” she ordered me in a tone that brooked no argument, and I obeyed.

Well, she’ll dismember me after all.

3. Don’t Lie

In the cabin, it was warm: the engine had probably been running the entire time, and the heater was on. We sat side by side on the rear seat, and I stared at the back of the seat in front of me, avoiding her gaze.

For some reason, I suddenly became completely indifferent to what she intended to do with me next.

“If you behave calmly, I will remove the handcuffs,” she stated, trying to make eye contact with me.

I silently shrugged one shoulder — the other was aching terribly — and put my head even lower so that it wouldn’t be clear from under my bangs where I was looking.

Perhaps I would have sat like that for eternity if it weren’t for her voice, which pulled me out of the enveloping half-sleep, “If you let me help you, we’ll both be better off.”

“I don’t need your help,” I couldn’t hold back from saying.

“So you think you’re okay?”

There was both indignation and a barely perceptible tremor in the soft timbre.

“Why do you need all this? Let me go.”

“And why do you need this? Do you enjoy freezing on the streets and hanging around train stations, risking your life for a couple of bucks?”

“Not a couple — more,” I chuckled.

“When was the last time you ate something hot? Do you have anything warmer than this hoodie?”

Her hand, cuffed to mine, jerked involuntarily on the seat in a gesture of annoyance, and I winced at the stinging pain; my reaction did not go unnoticed.

“What’s it to you?!” I said rudely, lifting my chin and tossing my hair back from my face with a flick of my head. “Don’t you have anyone else to keep an eye on? Find another hobo!”

“I don’t care about others.”

“There’s nothing special about me. You’re up to something — I’m not going to play your games.”

“You have no other choice,” she said with a deliberately indifferent chuckle.

But I felt uneasy.

I need her to undo the handcuffs — so I can get out of the car and run away.

“Remove the cuffs, I can’t talk like this,” I breathed out peacefully.

“Otherwise you’ll run away …”

“I won’t, I promise.”

I was bluffing, but people usually believed me. I hoped she would believe me too … To be sure, I widened my eyes, looking at her with a pleading expression.

My little skit about the poor, unfortunate boy worked — the metal ring clicked open. Not on my wrist, but on the wrist of the stranger.

However, it was enough for me to lose the ballast. At that very moment, I pushed the door at the right, intending to escape from the cabin.

The woman managed to grab me by the hips and drag me back into the car, catching me by the arms. A second later, the door slammed shut like a trap that had caught a wolf’s paw, and I howled like a wild animal — the stranger had cuffed me again.

Only now it was to the right ceiling handle — so that my limb was raised up, crosswise with my body turned in the opposite direction.

“Bitch!” I blurted out, and none of us could tell if it was directed at the stranger or into the void.

She, completely unfazed by my wild appearance, grabbed my chin, immobilizing my free hand with the now-familiar grip on the wrist, forcing me to look directly at her over my shoulder. I tried to pull away, but to no avail — her cold fingers, burning my skin, held me tightly and uncompromisingly.

Her face was too close, and I didn’t even dare lick my dry lips.

The spacious car suddenly felt cramped and stuffy.

“What’s your name?” she demanded.

“Leo,” I lied.

The woman snorted.

“Don’t lie!”

I was taken aback, blinking. She can’t know — she’s—

“Well, go ahead!”

“But what’s it to you?!”

“Your name isn’t Leo. Then what’s your name?”

“Victor,” I said after a pause.

What’s the point of hiding it …? However, the stranger did not let go of my chin, as I expected — she continued to look at me with that strange gaze.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” I rolled my eyes.

“Don’t lie,” she countered, more calmly, and I flinched, pulling back suspiciously, held back only by her tenacious fingers digging into my sunken cheeks.

So she can accuse me of lying for any phrase — she can’t know anything about me …!

“Okay, fourteen,” I exhaled loudly through my nose.

“Where do you live?”

“In the dosshouse on the Bowery,” I lied again, but in such a way that anyone would believe me.

For some reason, she just shook her head, loosening her hand a little, but kept touching my face.

“Where are your parents?”

“I’m already an adult, I don’t need parents!”

“I get it,” she muttered.

“What is it, what you get?!” I suddenly got furious. “Don’t you dare judge me, you petty blind sheeple, you know nothing about me! She gets it!”

“Easy …”

“Who the hell are you, to detain me like this?! Who are you to catch me like this — like a stray dog, with cuffs, by force! Who do you think you are — you stupid bitch! Or are you trying to play around with charity? Shove your pity up your vagina!”

As soon as her hand on my right wrist relaxed — from the surprise of my tirade, I suppose — I immediately threw the door open again, almost completely out of my mind, sincerely convinced that the harder I pulled, the more likely it would be to break the ceiling handle.

I was about to break my arm — if I hadn’t already — and as I jerked and struggled unsuccessfully to get out of the car, I felt that damn woman dragging me back.

Having already unfastened the handcuffs somehow, he manages to drag me in with difficulty.

I scratched my cheek on the sparkling rings on her ring finger, I bit her wrist, which was near my mouth, and only then did I realize it … I was screaming something incoherent and senseless, and she tried to shut me up, pressing me down into the seat with the weight of her body.

She didn’t say a word, she waited until I stopped shaking, and only after I had fallen limp beneath her, lying face down with my nose on the back seat sofa, did the stranger turn to me, still stirring my nerves with her warm breath tickling my neck.

“Defending your freedom? Saying I have no right to detain you? You had too much freedom — and how did you use it? Are you happy?”

I huffed angrily, but said nothing out loud.

“Answer me, Victor, are you happy with your freedom?”

4. Freedom

What kind of question is that? I didn’t choose freedom.

It all just happened: first the orphanage, then the escape — better to run than endure abuse — then the streets … I’ve been living like this for three years now! What choice did I have?

At that moment, I tried to pretend that her question didn’t bother me at all, but deep down, a worry settled: what if she’s right?

“Better this than being a slave to the system and living through rose-colored glasses in a consumer society!” I muttered to the seat.

“Are you talking about me or something?”

Did I imagine it, or did she laugh? She’s definitely touched in the head.

As if suddenly remembering herself, she raised herself up on her hands, freeing me from underneath her, and took a seat next to me. I cautiously turned and sat upright, glancing warily at the cuffs hanging from the ceiling handle.

“Why do you need all this?” I finally asked hoarsely.

“I already told you — I want to help you.”

“What good will that do? You’ll help me if you just let me go and never come after me again.”

“That won’t work for me.”

I couldn’t remember how much time had passed since she chased me at the station, but her beautiful face seemed familiar. How curiously my brain works.

It suddenly dawned on me.

“I got it,” my lips curled into a smirk. “You want to work your guilt trip on me! For me,” I emphasized the word deliberately, mimicking her confident tone, “that won’t work.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It couldn’t be simpler,” I retorted, hardly feeling confident, reigniting the conflict but wanting to expose the woman. “Better feed the birds or save the Bengal tigers — I have nothing to do with it. Don’t waste your time and energy — it won’t work.”

She looked at me carefully, and for the first time in many months I discerned not the usual disgust and disdain, but interest.

I was afraid to believe that she saw me as more than just a homeless kid stealing bags.

“You’re right about one thing: by letting yourself be helped, you’ll help me,” she said.

“You’re in the wrong place.”

“You’re not listening to me — it’s you I need.”

“You don’t know me at all.”

Indeed — I could be dangerous; I could, after all, do something to her — anything — from robbery to rape …!

“So let me get to know you.”

“You’re crazy,” I sighed resignedly, lowering my head, burying my face in my hair. “For the last time, I beg you — let me go.”

Until the very end, I resisted the growing urge to simply give in and let this freak do whatever she wanted. How bad could her conditions be — what if I, too, found pleasure in various perversions?

Maybe she’ll just ask me to urinate on her — I’ve already been offered pedophilic sodomy once … I, of course, refused — I ran away at the first opportunity — but now it’s a different matter.

My imagination was already running wild, and I caught myself thinking that, firstly, judging by everything, her proposal would have nothing in common with what I had pictured in my mind, and, secondly, for some reason this upset me.

“I’ll find you a home, you’ll be safe,” she began.

I shook my head in protest, “Don’t bother — I’m all right as I am.”

“I can buy you clothes.”

“I’m fine for now,” I shrugged.

I lied, but a pair of holey summer sneakers and an old hoodie aren’t rock bottom.

“I’ll give you money,” the stranger said with sadness in her voice.

What if I really did agree, nod, just take the cash and leave? Of course, I had no idea how much she could give a hobo, and I’ve never been good at saving anyway …

Wait! Can I just take her money?

I wouldn’t mind earning it — but I didn’t know how — or stealing it, but taking it seemed somehow unfair. Because there’s no point in her giving me money voluntarily … and I’m not a beggar.

Once upon a time, everything could have been different. Once, I couldn’t even imagine that I would be parasitizing on people like her.

“So where do we stand?” The woman in front of me pulled me out of my thoughts, staring intently at my face.

Come on, agree, agree! my inner voice kept repeating. I wanted to leave, but at the same time, I wanted to stay. What’s wrong with me?

Take the money and go! Like on TV — take the money and go.

“And you’ll leave me alone?”

How naive I looked at that moment! I was trying to fool her, but she might as well have fooled me!

I can’t trust anyone … Not even myself.

“Yes. If you take the money.”

“Deal,” I exhaled with feigned relief, watching her put her hands into the pockets of her soft, thin coat and pull out first a couple of bills, then a wad of a few more.

“Wait, just a moment …”

“Enough. That’s enough,” I said, for some reason, embarrassed.

I looked into her eyes, confused, and all my resolve vanished, leaving no trace. Where is the catch, where is it?

She thrust the money into my hands. Her palms trembled slightly — I felt it in the quick touch.

As soon as I realized it was time to leave, I swung the door open, awkwardly stumbling out onto the roadway, choosing a moment of increased traffic on the road.

So that, having chased after me, she would not have time to cross the street, waiting for the flow of cars to die down, and I would be able to get away.

Giving in to a fleeting desire to do some last shit, out of the corner of my eye seeing the woman standing next to the car on the opposite side of the road, I demonstratively extended my hand forward, and white and green pieces of paper flew out of my open hand one after another.

I immediately regretted my actions, but the little bastard inside me triumphed.

I don’t care that I risk going hungry again today if I don’t find something to eat …

Well, it was stupid, though. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have.

5. I Want to Be Alone

Naturally, I returned to the spot a couple of hours later, having first made sure the stranger had vanished without a trace. I was lucky: one bill, unnoticed by passers-by and not caught in the wind, remained in the flowerbed among the branches of a frozen cypress.

I bought a huge burrito with it, and still had a ton of change left over. I certainly couldn’t finish the entire tortilla with all the filling, but I was incredibly greedy and hungry in front of the street food window.

And so, by the middle of the meal, I was already having trouble working my jaws, but I still shoved the food down. Just in case — who knows what might happen to me tomorrow?

It didn’t bother me that the bench in the park between West 33rd and 34th Streets — the very same one I run through time and again, getting myself in trouble — was cold and unsuitable for sitting. I sank contentedly into my inner silence — free of unnecessary thoughts and worries — mindlessly gazing at the multicolored garlands of holiday lights ahead and above me.

The burrito had already cooled, and my body began to feel the chill again: that’s how I realized it was evening. The hood pulled over my head didn’t provide any warmth, it merely obscured my vision.

It was probably because of it that I only saw someone sit down on the bench to my left at the very last moment.

That someone was the stranger.

“My other offers still stand,” she said peacefully.

I remained silent and chewed my tortilla, glancing sideways at the woman in the gray coat.

Maybe if I pretended not to notice her, she’d go away …? I unwittingly hunched my shoulders, wishing I could become invisible.

“Look at it this way. There’s probably something you truly want.”

“I want you to leave.”

Did I even say that out loud?

She sighed, but moved closer. I caught the scent of her perfume — for these past few hours, the memory of her had occasionally troubled me. I myself seemed saturated with perfume, with memories, and now I constantly felt her subtle presence.

How could I get rid of her? She no longer angered me, but her company didn’t bring me any joy either.

“What should I do to make you leave me alone?” I turned my head towards her, throwing back my hood. “You didn’t even let me eat in peace.”

“Sorry,” the stranger replied.

She said it without any pretense. Wow!

“I want to be alone,” I muttered through clenched teeth.

Or rather, not alone — I’ve always been alone — but free from strangers’ intrusive attention. I thought I wasn’t risking anything: whether she’d be offended or upset — I couldn’t care less. The main thing was to make sure she didn’t come here again — to the train station, the park, the construction site; otherwise, if she left today, she’d be ambushing me again tomorrow.

“I already told you — I don’t need anything. Thanks for lunch — but that’s all.”

“You’re cold.”

There was no question in her tone — it was an assertion, a statement of fact. I didn’t want to agree with her, even though I was visibly shaking all over, and the paper around the half-eaten tortilla was fluttering, not from the wind.

“Not at all,” I stubbornly objected.

I saw her roll her eyes and then wrap herself in the coat tighter, crossing her arms over the chest. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and in fact, she wasn’t dressed for the weather today: yesterday’s lynx coat and gloves were far more appropriate for early winter.

“Well, I’m cold. I can’t imagine spending the whole day outside in this weather,” she said gloomily, and I didn’t hear any mockery or boasting in her words.

Maybe I just didn’t want to hear it …?

“Let’s go, okay? Finish your taco burrito — or whatever you have — in the car, and I’ll buy you some hot coffee?” she offered amiably.

But I interrupted her, “No need. I don’t need anything. Just go. Or I’ll go myself.”

“Victor …”

The sound of my name in her voice literally turned everything inside me upside down. My heart suddenly felt like it was about to jump out of my chest, and, even more terrified of such a reaction, I scowled like a hedgehog.

“It won’t work.”

“Victor,” she called again, but I didn’t dare look at her — I was staring at the pavement beneath my feet.

Then I jumped to my feet, gasping for icy air.

“Will you quit it?!” I snapped at her, and she just widened her dark eyes. “I’m telling you for the last time: go away, leave me alone, or I’ll leave myself! And don’t you dare follow me!”

We were starting to attract attention again — my indignant cries had already drawn several onlookers — and, thoroughly annoyed, I threw the rest of my burrito in the trash.

Screw it, I wouldn’t have taken it with me anyway.

“Are you happy? I’m leaving! I can’t say it was nice meeting you,” I bowed clownishly, my gaze flashing angrily, noting how her beautiful face was turning pale.

What’s wrong with her?!

“Wait! Stop!” she blurted, but I had already turned on my heels, striding away.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized she wasn’t following.

I won!